


Tradition

by Mackem



Series: Imaginary Advent Calendar 2012 [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stilinski men keep their Christmas tradition going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> Every year, I write what I call my Imaginary Advent Calendar, where each day until December 25th I open another day of an advent calendar that doesn’t exist and write what I picture various people or characters in different shows/fandoms/books in a holidays context. This year I’ve challenged myself to write a ficlet for every day. See Vicky panic! They’ll be in various different fandoms and pairings, and won’t be particularly long (except the ones that eat my brain). Enjoy! X!
> 
> I adore the Stilinskis, and their little family.

He can’t help but reflect to himself that, just a few years ago, Stiles would be the one waking _him_ before six on Christmas morning. Now he peeks into his son’s room with a yawn and feels his resolve to rouse him wavering as he sees Stiles sprawled in bed, peaceful and still for once.

Stiles _had_ made him promise, though. This is a tradition, by now. 

“Hey, kid,” he whispers from across the room, before realising how ridiculous he was being. He was trying to wake him, for God‘s sake.

“Hey. Stiles,” he says, more loudly. When he gets nothing in return, he sighs and pushes his way into the room. Stiles has always been a heavy sleeper. When his energy finally runs out and he crashes, he crashes _hard_.

A good shake of his shoulder has him stirring. “Mmm?”

“I’m home,” John murmurs. Stiles blinks heavy eyes at him, uncomprehending, before they widen and he nods.

“Right. Okay.”

“Yeah? You’re up?”

“’m up,” Stiles agrees. He tries to add something else, but is soon overtaken by a huge yawn. John can’t help but chuckle fondly at his son as he flops over in bed, stretching like an overgrown, gangly kitten. 

“What was that, kid?”

“I’m awake, promise,” he mumbles. “What time is it?”

“Almost six,” John supplies, with a glance at his watch. He smiles at Stiles’ anguished groan. “You can go back to bed, if you want? We could always go later. There’s no rush.”

“No, no no no, I’m up. See?” Stiles protests as he pushes his way out of bed, his voice thick with sleep. “We gotta do this first.”

“Okay, son,” says John easily. Truth be told, he likes beginning their Christmases this way. It feels right, paying their respects before they launch into the general chaos of the day.

Stiles blinks blearily around the room as if seeing it for the first time, before stumbling towards his wardrobe. “Suit?”

“Suit,” agrees John softly. “Meet downstairs in ten?”

“Deal,” Stiles yawns, and John chuckles to himself as he leaves.

He strips off his uniform, and puts on his one and only suit in its place. He can’t say he feels comfortable in it. The material feels strange, stiff and unfamiliar compared to his usual worn-in, comfortable attire, and he frowns at himself uncertainly in the mirror before reaching for a tie anyway. The two of them decided long ago that it would be nice to dress up a little for their visit. She had always loved to see her two guys looking smart.

He makes it downstairs before Stiles and sets coffee brewing, wondering which of them is more awake. He’s worked the night shift straight through until five-thirty, and is desperately thinking about catching a few hours of sleep, but Stiles is not likely to have rolled into bed before midnight. His son keeps some strange hours, nowadays, but he can remember sleep not _exactly_ being a priority in his own teenage years, so he just shrugs and makes sure the coffee is extra strong.

Stiles thunders downstairs as usual, the noise seeming even louder for the early hour. His tired face lights up at the scent of the coffee and he bounces over to the pot, burying his face in it with an appreciative sniff. John can’t help but smile at the sight of his son all dressed up, still knotting a black tie over a simple blue shirt. Where has this boy, this _man_ come from? It feels like only yesterday he had Stiles cradled in his arms for the first time, squalling and squirming; he can remember so clearly watching him suckle at a bottle at ass o’clock in the morning during that first night feed, and softly telling him how perfect he was, with one finger clutched tight in his son’s tiny, chubby hand.

Stiles offers him a small, curious smile. “Y’okay?”

“Yeah,” John manages, and smiles in return. “Just…thinking back. Seems like the right day for it, huh?”

“Right,” Stiles murmurs, before he smacks himself on the forehead and launches himself across the room. He pulls John into a hug and laughs in his ear. “Hey, merry Christmas! I totally forgot to say it!”

“I knew you weren‘t really awake,” John chuckles, and holds Stiles tight. “Merry Christmas, kid.”

***

They pour the coffee into a thermos with cream and sugar - Stiles drops the sweetener with a sigh when John points out that it’s _Christmas_ , for God’s sake, surely he can indulge just this _once_ \- and Stiles drives them to the cemetery in his jeep. He’s sure they look a little strange, two besuited men trundling along in a beaten-up jeep before six-thirty in the morning, but that’s part of the tradition, too. The jeep was hers. John is sure she’d love that Stiles has kept the old thing running smoothly.

They don’t speak much on the way there. John can feel himself dozing off, worn out from a long night, and Stiles is considerate enough not to laugh _too_ much when he startles awake in the cemetery parking lot.

They walk side by side through the plots, quiet in the still, crisp air. The two of them are smiling tiredly, and Stiles chuckles when he yawns and sets John off. 

A small bench waits by her grave, with a plaque stating it was donated by the men and women of Beacon Hills Sheriff Department, in fondest memory. John sits himself down after brushing off the frost, but Stiles is distracted, staring across the plots. There’s a guy not too far away from them, looking in their direction.

John squints at the figure as he pours their coffee into the two thermos cups. “Is that Derek Hale?”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles. He clears his throat and sits down for almost an entire second before leaping right back up. “I’m just - I’ll be right back, okay?” John raises an eyebrow.

“You’re going to wish _Derek Hale_ a merry Christmas?”

“Um…”

“In a cemetery?” he presses on. Stiles cringes back a little and scrubs at his hair worriedly.

“Uh…?”

“Is that the best you’ve got to offer? You really _aren’t_ awake if you can‘t make up some explanation. I‘m almost disappointed.” He glances towards Derek again, and watches Stiles look between the two of them, jittering with nervous energy. John huffs and raises an eyebrow. “You spend a lot of time consoling persons of interest, Stiles?”

“He has, like, twelve graves to visit. It‘s bad enough with just one,” Stiles mumbles, his voice soft and his eyes anguished, and John can’t help but sigh. He gives the Hale boy a wave and shoos his son away.

“Go on, kid. Tell him happy Christmas from me, will you? And don‘t be too long.”

“I won’t.” He smiles when Stiles presses a kiss to his cheek, and watches him scurry off, his heart bleeding for the world. 

“He reminds me of you so much,” he murmurs aloud, and raises one cup towards his wife’s grave with a brief smile. “Merry Christmas, honey.”


End file.
